


Aligned

by exmachinarium



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Fan theory based, M/M, Overstimulation, Runaways AU, probably inacurate in the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 21:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18351845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmachinarium/pseuds/exmachinarium
Summary: Aaravos and Viren get ambushed while on the run from humans and arrive at a certain understanding.





	Aligned

**Author's Note:**

> Largely based on one of the circulating fan theories about Viren's staff being connected to Aaravos. Basically a short and sweet thing I initially didn't even feel like posting. Thank my bad health and [Tsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsukiwake) (who was also kind enough to provide a quick beta).

Time is a fickle thing. Humans collectively suppose it goes in a straight line, from one point to another, but there are instances when it does anything but; meandering between events, linking things without any feasible connection, or stopping entirely on a whim. Time, in other words, makes no sense.

They were ambushed on their way to the next settlement. Elvish marauders, a ragged bunch just out to steal from travellers; no recollection on their faces as the first spell lit up the clearing. A minor annoyance, but their sheer number forced Aaravos and Viren to fight them off back to back. Which is why Aaravos doesn't see what happens.

But oh, can he _feel_  it.

A metalic twang of the crossbow is the only warning he gets before all air bursts out of his lungs in a choked moan. His hand spasms and the spell he was about to release dissolves into a sickly crackle; the other moves to his chest on reflex. He tries to refocus, but the tears in his eyes make the assailiants blur into a single dark mass full of razor-sharp grins.

Through the haze he feels Viren reaching out to him, both in body and mind.

_We need to retreat!_ Oh, good, he learned. _Give me air!_

Aaravos doesn't have enough of it to laugh at the irony, but he forces his hand into Viren's and feels the surge of power. One clearing blurs into another as they fall in a heap on damp ground, both wheezing from exhaustion.

Viren's grasp on primal magic has grown pretty strong over their weeks in exile. He still needs Aaravos to tap into the source, but once the gate opens, he handles the power deftly, as expected of a veteran mage. If only his landing skills were on par with his general aptitude.

"What was that?" irritation mingles with worry in Viren's voice and, now that the ringing in Aaravos' ears subsided, it's a most wonderful sound. "Did they hit you? Are you hurt?"

Too many questions, Aaravos huffs in his thoughts as he props himself against a nearby boulder - and thanks the stars they didn't land on top of it. His body is mostly under control now, but his mind reels. Judging by the state Viren's in, a (long overdue) explanation might be in order, one that Aaravos doesn't feel at all ready to deliver. But if a thousand years of imprisonment taught him anything, it's that sometimes life requires you to take things in stride as they are.

"Is your staff fine?"

"My- Yes, it is, why are you- don't change the subject!" Viren bristles. "You might have a concussion, if elves get that at all..."

He moves to inspect further and for a moment Aaravos relishes in the firm grip on his chin, the rough thumb stroking the stars under his right eye. Apart from their intimate encounters, Viren is not one for extended physical contact, so Aaravos is forced to treasure whatever touch he can get.

"I am not derailing," he smiles, "but you're not making it easy on me."

"Pardon?"

"What do you know about the gem in your staff?"

Viren's agitation is delightfully palpable.

"Do we really have time for historical trivia right now?" he looks Aaravos in the eye, searching for answers, growing impatient when he finds none. "Ugh, fine, have it your way. The gem is likely of elvish origin, like the staff itself, but you knew that. It's a primal stone, but you knew that as well. Need I go on?"

Aaravos smiles what he hopes is his most innocent smile. Viren doesn't seem to fall for it.

"It's rumoured to be passed down from the grand mage Elarion herself," he sighs in defeat, "and is officially recognised as the legacy of the royal family of Katolis. Its common name, if I'm not mistaken, is 'Heart of the Midnight Star' and-"

Viren's voice trails off, as if he only now realised what he should've known from the start. Aaravos, finally anchored back in reality, drinks in the look on his face: the parted lips, the sharp eyes focused entirely on Aaravos, as if the rest of the world ceased to exist. Aaravos, for his part, enjoys the attention - until, suddenly, his vision goes blurry again.

Fingers. Familiar, calloused fingers on the rim of his hollow chest, their every tremble resounding in Aaravos' body like an underwater earthquake. One stroke inwards and the world around folds in on him, tearing down his form until he's just a spark in nothingness, pulsing, reaching out, _needing_...

"Enough," he hears himself rasping out from far away. "That's enough."

Time and space return to him scattered, buzzing insistently around his head. Fingers. His own fingers coiling around a wrist. Viren's wrist, pulse quicker than that of a scared animal. Heart. Aaravos' heart, discarded in the grass, shining like a beacon. The cosmic glow lighting up Viren's profile, dark with greed, soft with unusual tenderness. Tender. Hesitant turning within Aaravos' grip, Viren's fingers sliding down his pulse until they thighten around his wrist.

"We need to go," Viren says, hoisting him up and moving to retrieve the staff, grip still tight as if he was holding onto something precious.


End file.
